


On Habits And Toast

by Moorishflower



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy to get to know Sherlock's habits, but getting to know the man himself is a bit more difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Habits And Toast

  
These are some of the fundamental truths that John is beginning to learn (and categorize) about Sherlock Holmes: he likes toast, and solving murders, and playing his violin at ungodly hours of the morning. He performs odd and sometimes bloody experiments with animal bits in the kitchen. He has a stash of nicotine patches somewhere in the flat, but John has yet to figure out where. He doesn't pick up after himself. He recoils at the thought of reality television ("How deluded are these sad people if they think that _this_ is reality?"). He collects things seemingly at random – old bottles, vintage movie posters, vinyl records that he never listens to. He isn't terribly fond of geese, which, according to him, are 'irrationally angry and a chore to work with.' John isn't certain he wants to know the story behind that one.

Sherlock doesn't like to talk on the phone. Texting, he says, is much more concise, and expedient.

John has lived with the man for almost a month and the list of things that he knows about Sherlock Holmes is almost depressingly short. Mostly, he knows about Sherlock's habits – what time he gets up (quite early, as he often forgets to fall asleep in the first place), what sort of jam he likes on his toast, that kind of thing. But they aren't the sort of things that you really _want_ to learn about a person, things like their hopes, their dreams, whether or not they plan on getting rid of that rat carcass in the freezer anytime soon…

Well, that last one is probably only something that _John_ wants to know. But it's important all the same.

He tries asking, several times over the course of that first month.

"So, do you _want_ a girlfriend?"

Sherlock gives him a look that says, quite clearly, 'I find you to be both tiring and uninteresting.'

John tries again later.

"Do you have any hobbies aside from the violin? I mean, married to your work, must get dull."

"It is never dull," Sherlock says immediately, with such a tone of offense that John raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. After a moment, Sherlock purses his mouth and says, "I fence, on occasion But it is less a hobby and more a useful skill."

"That's…interesting," John offers tentatively. Sherlock turns back to his beakers and bottles of unidentifiable chemicals, and the conversation dies out.

Which doesn't stop him from trying again…

"What's your favorite movie?"

"I do not go to the cinema. Modern movies are neither entertaining nor conducive to productivity."

…and again…

"We always eat at the same places. Do you fancy going somewhere else, just for a change?"

"Why would I? These establishments provide me with discounts, and the food is adequate."

…and again, almost desperate to find the actual, real life human being that _has_ to be lurking somewhere under Sherlock's skin. But John isn't an expert on people, not the way Sherlock is, and he has the idea that, if Sherlock doesn't want to open up, then no force on Earth will get him to do so.

So John just…forgets about it. They solve cases (Sherlock by being brilliant and possibly insane, and John by being curious and, occasionally, in the right place at the right time), and they eat at restaurants owned by people who may or may not be criminals, and they don't live together so much as they just so happen to occupy the same general space nine times out of ten.

Which is why it's so surprising when, shortly after they've passed their one month anniversary (or whatever you call it, when you are roommates but most definitely aren't shagging each other), Sherlock begins offering…hints, for lack of a better word. Tiny snippets of information.

"I quite enjoy the opera," Sherlock tells him one day. John pauses with his mug half raised to his mouth – he isn't sure if he's expected to put it down and try and continue the conversation, or keep on as he was, ignoring Sherlock's admittedly clumsy attempt at socializing entirely.

Thankfully, Sherlock takes the choice away from him and, with a curt nod, strides from the room without saying another word.

It continues on like that, not so often that John becomes used to the random factoids, but often enough that he's beginning to feel concerned.

"I always liked pipe tobacco more than cigarettes."

Followed by:

"I've often thought about beekeeping."

It's never _quite_ enough for John to go on, but he realizes, at some point, that this is Sherlock _trying_. Not succeeding, as he so often does with other things, but honest to God _trying_ to be…normal.

It's freaking John out. More than it even has any right to. He gives himself a few days to think about it, mulling it over in between smelly experiments (although thankfully involving significantly fewer eyeballs, this time around) and trips to the rotating battery of small restaurants and cafes that owe Sherlock Holmes their owners' freedom.

He finally figures it out over breakfast (toast, for Sherlock, and a cup of coffee and a bagel for himself), just as Sherlock opens his mouth and says, "I have never been on a roller coaster."

John holds up his hand, and Sherlock makes _that_ expression, the one that implies that John has just interrupted a Very Important train of thought, and that the violin will probably be making an appearance later on.

"Sherlock," he says softly. "What are you doing?"

"Exchanging information," is the prompt answer. Sherlock takes a bite of his toast, chewing expectantly while John tries to work out the various nuances in Sherlock's voice. In the curve of his mouth.

"Right," John says. "You do realize that there hasn't been a lot of _exchanging_ going on."

"I was under the impression that you wanted to know more about me. Or is there another reason why you have been asking so many questions regarding my personal habits?"

"That's not quite how it works," John tries to explain. It's a struggle, getting Sherlock to see things, if only for very briefly, the way other people see them, and it usually doesn't stick for any length of time. "It's a give and take process. You learn things about people by interacting with them, not by just...dumping a load of information on their heads."

"Information is not something that can be 'dumped.'"

"You know precisely what I mean, so don't even try to deny it."

Sherlock frowns. He has, John's noticed, a wonderfully expressive mouth, although ninety percent of the time he's expressing disdain for the people around him, or morbid excitement for whatever grizzly crime he's working on solving.

"I don't enjoy…interacting," Sherlock says. There's a note of hesitance in his voice that John is almost certain no one else would be able to detect. It's a combination of expression and tone, so subtle as to almost be invisible.

"I know you don't," John says kindly. "You aren't obligated to tell me things, Sherlock. It's fine, the way things are." He stands, leaving his bagel and coffee on the table, and goes to fetch Sherlock a second piece of toast. He considers the bread for a moment, and then smothers it with blackberry jam. He puts the toast on a fresh plate, sets that plate down in front of Sherlock, and then retakes his seat, picking up his mug and bagel.

Sherlock looks at him like he's some sort of wizard.

"How did you know I wanted blackberry jam?" he demands impetuously. "There's four different kinds of jam, I might have wanted strawberry, or peach."

"Because I live with you, and because you just had strawberry jam," John points out, gesturing with his bagel at Sherlock's mostly-eaten first piece of toast. "And yesterday you had the peach jam, and the gooseberry. And the day before that you had strawberry and peach."

"Are you saying that my eating habits are predictable?"

"I'm saying that I live with you," John repeats, and takes a bite of his bagel. It isn't warm anymore, but he's past the point of caring.

Sherlock clears his throat.

"Watson," he says carefully. "Do you like the opera?"

"I've never been."

Sherlock squints at him, and then picks up his fresh piece of toast.

"Excellent," he says, and takes a bite.


End file.
